


A soldier's life is terribly hard

by gayalondiel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/pseuds/gayalondiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, a nice day and locale in London once infamous for trysts of a certain variety. Smut with a hint of military kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
> 
> AN: I mentioned to [info]irisbleufic that my brain was getting frazzled with fic and I should just write some porn to clear the air. She immediately requested St James’s Park. (While I was writing my own predilection for military trappings came into play slightly). Beta'd by xitheta and rabidsamfan.

The spring sun was beating down on Birdcage Walk, glancing off the road and putting an edge of glare in John’s vision. Their appointment at the Treasury, demanded by Mycroft, had taken all of five minutes and entailed quite a large serving of derision from Sherlock. Not wanting to consider his trip completely pointless, John was steering them in the direction of St James’s Park, figuring the walk would do him good. The road was surprisingly empty, although the sound of marching feet and shouting coming from further up the road told him that something was going on at Wellington Barracks. Feeling a touch on his wrist, he glanced down and saw a slender finger tracing the hard nubs of bone in the joint.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock was smiling down at him, and John wondered if it was the bright sun that was putting that glint in his eye. “John?”

“Are you alright?” Truthfully he looked fine; cool and composed in his suit despite the warm weather, having finally been convinced to leave his heavy coat at the flat. But his fingers continued to explore, now running over the back of John’s hand.

“Oh yes, fine,” Sherlock glanced away. “John. You do know what this street used to be known for?”

“The aviary?”

“Later than that.”

“The barracks?”

“Mundane. Try again.”

“There’s a march...”

“John.”

John frowned, trawling his mind. Birdcage Walk, there was definitely something else. Something that had been whispered and giggled among the cadet force when they had been pulled out of school to see the Trooping of the Colour rehearsals and they had been brought up here afterwards... Surely not?

Sherlock’s fingertips had moved from exploring to stroking gently. Okay, yes.

“No,” he said firmly. Sherlock positively pouted.

“John...”

“No!” repeated John, trying not to laugh. He did take Sherlock by the hand, though, leading him off the street before they reached the barracks and onto the path to the Blue Bridge. On the bridge they stopped, John leaning on the railing looking west over the water, Sherlock standing at his shoulder with his hand playing on the back of John’s neck.

“It’s really quiet today,” John commented, looking around at the deserted paths.

“Something’s happening, though,” replied Sherlock, tilting his head slightly. “Listen.”

John imitated his action, and sure enough he could hear voices. There was a crowd nearby, on the other side of the line of trees lining the edge of the park. From the south he could hear more shouting, and the sound of horses. The answer clicked into place.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Nearly eleven thirty,” Sherlock replied absently, without looking at his watch. Then his eyes met John’s. “Oh! Do you want to go and watch?”

John shook his head, looking back to the water. He felt Sherlock move closer to him, and then there was breath on his neck.

“You don’t want to go see all the men in uniforms?” he teased.

John chuckled. “Even if I had a thing for uniforms once, don’t you think a few years in the army would have cured me?”

“Maybe. No-one cured me, though.”

“You?” John turned his head to catch a look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “You have a thing for the Blues and Royals?”

“Not these uniforms particularly,” muttered Sherlock. “But there’s a certain aesthetic... You’ve never worn your uniform for me.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Would you then?”

“Maybe.” John felt Sherlock’s hands move to his hips and then he was being spun around, pressed precariously against the thin rail, and Sherlock’s lips were on his. Dimly he registered a couple of men in suits walking alongside the lake. The idea that he should be embarrassed flickered in his mind, but the businessmen were determinedly ignoring them and so he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss.

When Sherlock finally broke away, they could hear a shouted command and then the sound of horses hooves moving on Horse Guard’s Road. He slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Do you want to watch?” he asked.

“God, no!” replied Sherlock. “Dull, dull. Did you ever have to do things like that?”

“Me?” John laughed. “Doctor, remember? The worst we had to do was inspection parades.”

“In dress uniform?”

“Normally, yes.”

“You do still have it?” Sherlock’s eyes were gleaming now, and John bit back a smirk of his own. He slipped out from Sherlock’s arms and started walking again, feeling the danger of staying too long pressed close to his lover in public. Sherlock followed, staying well inside his personal space.

As they walked, John couldn’t help but tease him a little more. “I do have it. I didn’t think that would be the one you’d go for, though.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s voice was casual, but there was a definite quaver under it that John could hear from months of practice.

“I thought you might prefer mess dress. Dark blue jacket with red facings, bow tie, the works. I’d need you in black tie too, of course,” he added as an afterthought, and the sudden image that graced his mind of Sherlock lounging in a black dinner jacket with a bow tie lying untied around his neck, shirt gaping open, sent a shiver down his spine.

“Sounds nice,” said Sherlock, and it was obvious that he had noticed. John fought to regain the upper hand.

“Or there’s desert combat dress. I’ve still got that. That’s what you see on the news, in the Middle East.”

“The camouflage gear?”

“DPM, yes. Trousers and jacket, and a t-shirt underneath. It’s a comfortable uniform. Practical. And flexible. You can get away with rolled up sleeves, or no jacket at all, or...”

“No shirt?” Sherlock had slowed to a halt and was watching him with darkening eyes. Something like resolution crossed his face. John leaned in with a smile.

“Whatever you wanted.”

“You’d wander around the flat in just DPM trousers and boots, if I asked you to?”

“Well,” John glanced around, smiling. “I would hope not to be just wandering around the flat. You know...”

A roll of drums sounded on the other side of the line of trees and John glanced over automatically as the band began to play, a march that he recognised but could not name. Sherlock did not waste the moment. He took advantage of John’s distraction to grab him by the wrist and took off running into a nearby copse of trees. John allowed himself to be dragged and within seconds was pressed against a tree, being kissed fiercely. He kissed back for a few moments but then Sherlock was pulling away, moving back, moving down... oh. Oh.

“Sherlock!” he hissed fiercely.

“No-one’s looking,” replied Sherlock calmly as he unfastened John’s trousers efficiently. “Everyone’s watching the pretty guards.” John whipped his head from left to right, noticing that the copse was bordered on several sides by paths, and all it would take was someone walking by who was paying attention... But then Sherlock’s lips were on him and all rational thought flew away.

He dropped his head back and just focused on the waves of sensation rippling through his body as Sherlock kissed and licked and sucked. Hands pressed at his hips, holding him against the rough bark as he tried to restrain the urge to thrust. Then fingers were curling around the base of his cock, moving in perfect synchronicity with lips and tongue. John felt his mouth drop open and stuffed his fist between his lips before he could let out a cry that would surely give them away. The urge to buck and shudder was rapidly getting to be too much to control. John scrabbled for Sherlock's free hand and tugged on it, pulling it across, so that Sherlock's arm was braced across him from hip to hip, so that John could let go, loving the feel of the restriction.

He knew that Sherlock was a generous lover, capable of both long drawn-out lovemaking and inducing amazingly intense three-minute orgasms. This had to be the latter, although John had lost track of time completely in the rushing intensity of it. His hands came down to grip Sherlock’s hair tightly, probably painfully, but that only seemed to spur Sherlock on and he sped up, building the pressure of pleasure within John until collapse became inevitable and he was falling, falling, losing all control as he pulsed and shuddered and clung to Sherlock like an anchor, biting down hard on his tongue to prevent himself from shouting out loud.

Sherlock slid up his body as his breathing slowed, clever hands putting John’s clothing back together even while he pressed a hard kiss to his lips. The moment he was lucid enough John reached down in between them with a still trembling hand and brushed where Sherlock was hard. He almost fancied he could feel him throbbing through his trousers. Sherlock gave a quiet moan.

“John...”

“The band’s still playing.” John tore his eyes away to glance around. There were a few people now on the far side of the lake, but even if they looked... What would they see? Two men kissing? They probably wouldn’t look harder. And suddenly he realised he didn’t care if they did. “No-one’s looking,” he whispered, snaking his hands around to grip Sherlock’s hips and pulling him near.

“Really, John...”

“Sherlock, come on. For me.” John tightened his hands, pressing Sherlock as close as he could and feeling the moment where Sherlock gave in and began to thrust, slowly. “Please,” he whispered.

Sherlock gave a whimper and began pushing against him harder and faster. His head dropped to rest on John’s shoulder, panting out little gasps, moans and wordless pleas. John could feel heat and hardness through the layers of fabric between them and just held on, guiding Sherlock through the now frantic pace. He whispered in Sherlock’s ear, small entreaties and encouragements, and then with a sudden thrill of inspiration began describing half-formed images of what they could do, what Sherlock could and would be allowed to do with an army doctor wearing desert combat dress. Sherlock pressed his mouth against John’s neck and came with a strangled cry as the music moved from the Mall to Birdcage Walk and the crowd began to disperse back into the park.

John held Sherlock tightly and half-carried him down so they were collapsed together on the roots of the tree. He guided Sherlock back until their foreheads were pressed together and felt Sherlock’s hands running up his sides to grasp his shoulders, before one moved to his neck and stroked gently. On the paths around them tourists were moving, chattering loudly in several languages. With any luck anyone looking into the copse of trees would see two men, undoubtedly lovers, but just sitting there doing nothing more untoward than having a quiet moment together.

Slowly Sherlock’s breathing came back under control and he pulled John in for a kiss that was at once chaste and passionate. A couple of girls passing giggled and looked back at them but John was happy to ignore them. Sherlock smirked, a sure sign that he was back within himself.

“So, John, Birdcage Walk was known for...”

“Shut up.” John shook his head. “And don’t even think about making a habit of this.”

“You didn’t have fun?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Sherlock grinned at him. “Of course. I wouldn’t want things to get boring for you.” He pushed himself to his feet and dusted the grass and dirt from his knees before reaching a hand down to pull John up. With a final check to make sure they were presentable they returned to the now busy path and walked on.

Sherlock insinuated his hand neatly under John’s arm and held it as they walked, the old-fashioned gesture suiting him perfectly. “Besides,” he said as they approached Australia Gate, “there are plenty of other parks in London.”


	2. Evening Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In _A Soldier’s Life Is Terribly Hard_ the boys discovered that they have a mutual, um, fondness for one another in formal dress. When Mycroft requests help with a case in a stately home the inevitable occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** Again, blame irisbleufic. She had thirty minutes left to meet a challenge deadline and I said if she could do it I’d write her more porn. I need to stop saying stuff like that to her.
> 
> This is also dedicated to everyone who read John’s little fantasy moment in the original fic and responded with “ZOMG now you must write this!”. Love to you all.

_What did I do to deserve this?_

John eyed the well-dressed crowd, his head spinning slightly with champagne and stuffy air. Sherlock was prowling the room, looking for a man with a slight limp in his left leg and hints of a Welsh upbringing in his accent, although he would probably be doing his best to hide both. John had been trying to help but couldn’t see any limps, left- or right-legged; mostly because he was busy staring at the wiry form of his lover moving among the richly-dressed people in the most exquisitely tailored black tie ensemble John had ever seen. He sported a rich black suit, the jacket single breasted with peaked silk lined lapels, a low-cut evening waistcoat over a smooth white cotton shirt, and the world’s most crisply tied bow tie.

Of course, everything looked exquisite on Sherlock, be it a formal suit or a half-open dressing gown, but this was exceptional. John’s own RAMC jacket made him stand out, dark blue with red facings in a room mostly populated with civilians in black, although there were a couple of deep red jackets from Army regiments and on the far side of the room a Royal Navy jacket with more gold braid than John had ever seen on one person’s sleeves. Nevertheless, it was Sherlock that stole the floor, resplendent in his finery and wearing it with elegant ease that came with not caring what anyone present thought, the sign of a true aristocrat. Something stirred softly in John’s chest as he watched him, and he tried to occupy himself with the rest of the room to keep it from catching hold. Every few minutes he glanced back to Sherlock, basked in the knowledge that it was him, at the end of the day, who would take this beauty home, and then away again, scanning for the elusive limp.

The only limp John managed to detect, in fact, was the one that threatened to twinge in his own thigh after Mycroft introduced him to the third in a string of elegant and eligible thirty-something women. His leg rarely bothered him these days but something about Mycroft’s occasional and incomprehensible chess moves tended to set him off when they involved him. The first two women he had sent over had been polite, interested by his mess kit and the miniature operational service medal that went with it. One of them talked about “a brother in the MOD” which John suspected from the cut-glass accent probably meant the puppetmaster of the entire armed forces. Either that, or the clone of Winston Churchill that they were no doubt keeping in a bunker somewhere in case of World War Three. He hadn’t really been in the mood to indulge Mycroft’s bizarre intentions in trying to set heiresses on him, though, and he wasn’t glamourous or interesting enough to keep their attention long. But then the third approached, dressed in a demure midnight-blue dress that brushed the floor, hair cut short and stylish, with a brilliant smile. Once upon a time she would have knocked him off his feet, and he still felt his heart skip just a little as she took his hand.

Sherlock, across the room, barely spared him a glance but his shoulders tensed fractionally. John didn’t know what strings Mycroft had pulled to convince Sherlock to take this case, but he was willing to bet that he would be paying for it before the night was out. John too, if he did so much as smile at Lady whatever-her-name-was, an heiress and bosom friend of the hosts and, while not a threat to Sherlock, apparently not very welcome.

Loath as he would ever be to admit it to anyone else, John frequently enjoyed it when Sherlock decided he had something to pay for. So when Lady Whatever offered to escort him to the castle church to see the tomb of Katherine Parr, and then if the rain let up maybe a walk by the lake which was “quite delightful in the twilight”, he gave up on finding the not-limping man, drained his glass and offered her his arm. He didn’t look, but felt the gaze burning into the back of his head as they left, and pressed his lips together tightly to stop himself from smiling.

* * *

John would have felt guilty if she had shown a serious interest, but forty-five minutes later, after an enjoyable walk and a discussion of when it would be politic to withdraw from Afghanistan (after which she promised to write to “darling David” to pass on his views) they returned to the ballroom. She smiled, nodded, thanked him for his time and turned very politely to the next conversation. He thought he saw a look pass between her and Mycroft - he couldn’t be sure, but it was sufficient to raise his suspicions. He was considering trying to find another drink that wasn’t champagne when he noticed Mycroft with yet another woman, looking in his direction; and suddenly John decided that discretion was the better part of valour and fled the room. Not that there was much valour left to be had, as Sherlock would no doubt remind him later. He wandered through to the adjoining library, heading for the windows onto the balcony to get a breath of air. As he pulled the window open he heard a footstep behind him, a clink of ice, and a glass was pressed into his hand.

“Sherlock,” he said, not looking but absolutely certain from the familiar footfall. Warm breath brushed the back of his neck for a second, and then the footsteps retreated and the sofa - one of the sofas, in one of the libraries, in the _castle_ they were attending a drinks reception in - creaked as he settled himself. No doubt he looked elegant, beautiful, irresistible... so John declined to turn but instead raised the glass and sniffed at the contents.

“Dark ‘n’ stormies?” he asked with a smile. “I thought this was a champagne reception, how did you manage that?” There was no response from behind him. He sipped at his drink. It was perfect, with just the right mix of burn and sweetness, and he couldn’t help but lick at his lower lip. He wondered if Sherlock was watching his reflection in the window, took another sip and repeated the motion, just in case. “Have you found him, then?”

“Naturally.”

Sherlock’s voice was low, lower than usual, soft and dangerous. John resisted the urge to face him, continuing to gaze over the grounds where the rain was falling softly in the darkness. “Last time I saw you you were still looking.”

“Rubbish,” replied Sherlock tartly. “I had him almost straight away. It was just a matter of observation and confirmation. I passed the information to Mycroft some time ago, although I believe by that point you had left with your friend.” The last few words he said in a light, airy voice, but nevertheless John found the pieces of the puzzle slotting together. Sherlock had been avoiding telling Mycroft the answer - baiting him, teasing John, or just enjoying John trying not to be too obvious about watching him from across the room. So Mycroft, tiring of the game, had started directing women at him to rile Sherlock into providing the answer.

Of course, there were probably a dozen or so more layers of sibling rivalry to it, there always were with those two. John decided against giving voice to any of these thoughts.

“I see,” he said, simply.

“Do you?” Sherlock’s voice was almost a purr this time, just slightly too hard. A challenge. Finally, slowly, John turned his head.

Sherlock was, true to form, reclining elegantly on the gold brocade couch. His jacket was off and thrown over the arm of the sofa, revealing the way his waistcoat clung tightly to his slender form. His legs were set apart just enough to be suggestive while remaining perfectly decent to the innocent observer. His tie was undone and hanging loose around his neck, and the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned revealing a hint of pristine skin beneath. One hand held his own tall dark drink, while the fingers of the other fiddled idly with the gold plated RAMC cufflinks that John had pressed into those hands with a smile earlier that evening. Above all that, his eyes sparkled with amusement and dark intent, watching John keenly.

John couldn’t help the sudden intake of breath. It was one of his fantasies, an idea that had popped into his head one spring morning and had recurred persistently since then on occasions when Sherlock pressed him into the bed and begged him to talk, to tell him what he wanted, what he saw when he closed his eyes. It was a perfect moment, brought into living flesh and crackling energy. Above all, it was dangerous, and it saw the moment John’s body realised and began to react, and it smiled.

“Come here,” said Sherlock, his voice soft with intent. John could not think of doing anything but obeying and before he knew it he was on the sofa, leaning in towards Sherlock and reaching out to run a finger down his neck to dip just beneath the rich cotton shirt. Sherlock’s eyes remained fixed on him as John took one more sip from his drink, then took both their glasses and placed them on the nearby end table. He waited, knowing what was coming, but Sherlock did nothing and so he obeyed his desire, taking then ends of the bow tie in his hands and using it to draw Sherlock to him, their lips close, close enough that he could taste the sweetness on Sherlock’s breath...

“How was your walk?”

And there it was. John smiled deliberately. “Nice. Very nice. Charming woman.”

With a sudden flash of movement he was pressed against the arm of the sofa, Sherlock’s woollen jacket just this side of scratchy against the sensitive skin on the back of his neck. The tie had slipped from his fingers as Sherlock grabbed his wrists and he now pinned them at either side of John’s head. He stretched his body over John’s, and John knew he should remember that they were at a function populated by peers and aristocracy, in a _castle_ , but Sherlock was breathing hard on his skin and he just couldn’t care.

“Charming?” Sherlock repeated in an accusatory tone. John made his face as innocent as he could.

“Problem?” he asked. Sherlock’s hips pressed hard against his.

“Don’t play the innocent with me,” he whispered. “You knew damn well what you were doing and now; now you’re going to pay for it.” He dropped his face to John’s neck, denying him the kisses that he craved and already John recognised the game. He turned his head, trying to catch Sherlock’s lips with his own while they were still in reach and received a sharp bite on the neck for his effort. Sherlock jerked his wrists higher up and caught both in his left hand. His right moved to John’s neck where he pulled his tie open and proceeded down the front of his shirt, pulling buttons none too gently, fingers followed by lips followed by teeth. John longed to touch him, to return the sensation but when he moved his arms the fingers on his wrist tightened just enough to keep him in place.

Sherlock was shoving his clothes aside roughly now, waistcoat and shirt pushed back but not off, trousers skillfully unbuttoned with one hand. Then he was tugging down the silk boxers that he had given John as a present for special occasions, and his hand reached its goal even as his mouth found John’s nipples and bit and sucked and nibbled. He closed his hand around John’s already stiff cock and began to pull with firm determined strokes. The combination of sensations was overwhelming and John let his head drop back against the sofa. When his arms relaxed Sherlock released them and slid his hand down John’s body to cup his balls and stroke the soft skin of his inner thighs. Sherlock was an expert at this and an expert in John and it was not long at all before John was writhing, pleading, his hips shuddering uncontrollably as he moved inexorably towards the edge, and... and...

Sherlock stopped abruptly, pulling back from him to break all contact. He knelt up over him, haughty and imperious. John opened his eyes and bit down to stop himself from keening at the loss. He knew this game, but his body never got used to it. He tried to school his features into an expression of appropriate remorse.

“Sherlock, please...”

“After tonight’s little display?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You wandered off with a woman.”

“I didn’t...”

“A _woman_ , John. Someone _else_.”

“I’m _sorry_.”

“You provoked me. You did this, John.”

“Please, Sherlock...”

“No.”

That was unexpected. Normally the game included begging, pleading, teasing, all of which could last a lifetime, but eventually Sherlock would give in and finish him. John’s eyes widened and Sherlock smiled, leant back against the sofa in imitation of his earlier position. Their legs were tangled but it felt like they were miles apart, although a palpable spark danced between them. Sherlock smiled as John shifted.

“You stay where you are,” he said. “You can look, but don’t touch. I know you’ve wanted this, John. Wanted me, like this. You’ve told me so many times.” And with that he ran his hands down his somehow still crisp white shirt and silken waistcoat, down to cup the swelling in his trousers where John _knew_ he wasn’t wearing underwear, and ever so slowly pulled open the fastenings, slipped his hand inside and began to move.

John couldn’t see, not really, and that was the point, flashes of skin and movement under the black fabric, and he focused instead on the slight glaze that Sherlock’s eyes took on even though they were still fixed on John. He looked at the flush that gathered around his neck and the way his lips parted slightly and he began to pant in soft little gasps. His body, clad in the finest formal dress, began to shift and writhe. It was alluring and debauched, hedonistic. It was his dreams coming true. He let his hands drop to the level of his hips, but Sherlock’s stare intensified and John halted them, remembering the edict. _Look, but don’t touch_. He couldn’t stop his hips from rocking in sympathy, though, and Sherlock smiled.

He stilled his hand, and then reached up and shoved his trousers down to his knees. Somewhere in the dimness of John’s mind he remembered that this furniture was antique and expensive and the brocade probably shouldn’t be subjected to naked, sweaty flesh, but then a hand was being pressed into his face in wordless command. Obediently John licked the palm, and then because he was desperate for contact, any contact, grabbed one of the long fingers in his teeth, sucking on it and then the next and the next. He tried to follow when they were withdrawn before falling back against the cushions as Sherlock returned his slick hand to himself and began to pump his fist harder. His gasps came quicker as he thrust up, the movement rubbing their legs together, one ankle grazing tantalisingly against John’s inner thigh, and that was when John decided he was going to play too.

“You’re so right,” he whispered. “I deserve it. I know. But I’ve wanted this for so long, Sherlock, wanted you like this. Beautiful and elegant and completely undone for me, because you’re mine, Sherlock. You are mine. And I’m going to watch you touch yourself until you come, come for me, and you’ll say my name, because you know you want it, and if you do I’m going to fuck you, right here, in your expensive clothes, because as much as I’ve wanted this you want it more. I know it. I know you, Sherlock. You wore those clothes for me, because you want me, you wanted what I would do to you in them. So you’d better get ready, because as soon as you’re done there I’m going to have you.”

Sherlock’s eyes hardened with lust as he spoke, and he slowed his movements slightly. Then he was reaching around his own hips, and John had to credit the man, he was flexible. Sherlock began to prepare himself, hands moving in tandem to continue his sensation and ready the way for John’s pleasure. Victory soared in John’s chest as he realised he had won. His own cock gave a hard twitch and he dug his fingers into the sofa to stop from touching himself, because that would spoil everything, and he was not going to lose this now. He willed himself to stillness, and as he did so Sherlock’s mouth dropped open completely and he began to gasp wordlessly.

“My name, Sherlock. You have to say it.”

Sherlock whimpered, and finally his eyes closed. “John,” he whispered. “John, god, John!” and he was shuddering hard enough that John felt it through the furniture, and with a cry Sherlock arched his back and then collapsed, gasping for breath. John sat watching him, basking in the reflected glow, but with one hand reached up to the jacket still behind his head and dug in the pockets until he found the small bottle that he had been absolutely sure Sherlock would have brought with him.

Then he waited, watching until Sherlock opened his eyes and locked gazes with him once more.

“John, _please_ ,” he whispered.

That was it. John was crushed against him in microseconds, pressing him against the sofa with his full weight. Somehow Sherlock’s trousers were pushed away and his legs fell open. The bottle was cracked open and John slicked himself and then Sherlock’s hands were on his hips, hard, tugging him forward and he was too far gone to argue so he just pressed into him and then was lost in sensation and heat and tightness and feeling and Sherlock and god, and please. They began to move together, hard and fast, desperate and passionate in a moment that had been six long months of fantasy in the making.

Sherlock’s hands grabbed his collar and pulled him down and finally, finally they were kissing, close and intense as they gripped one another’s clothing. They revelled in touch and sensation, black, red and blue, wool, silk, damp cotton and slick skin, fabric to cling to and flesh for fingers to slip over. John pressed harder, faster, deeper and Sherlock gasped desperately into his mouth for more. Finally whiteness overtook him and sparks flew and he was pretty sure there were fireworks and an explosion and possibly even the Rapture came and went while he buried himself and Sherlock clawed at his back under his jacket in the way that he only did when they both came together, even though that seemed impossible, and then they were pressed together, panting shared air, utterly undone.

Slowly they pried themselves apart a few inches, enough for John to straighten his clothes a little, and then he was tugged back down and they lay there contentedly for what could have been hours.

Eventually one of them realised there was no way they were going to be presentable whatever they did. It was agreed that escaping out the french windows was the best bet, even though they were on the first floor and entailed climbing down the honeysuckle-covered trellis. Someone mentioned the fact that they needed a bath and the other pointed out things that could be done in the bath and after that it was more or less a rush for the windows and freedom. Just as he swung one leg over the stone wall of the balcony, Sherlock smiled fondly at John, who was already halfway down the trellis.

“We’ll have to find you another fantasy,” he said.

“I don’t know,” replied John. “There’s still that whole issue of you and my uniform to be dealt with, after all.” He dropped to the ground nimbly but not so quickly that he missed the sudden light in Sherlock’s eyes, and began to sprint across the lawn, knowing that his determined lover would be in very swift pursuit.


	3. Touch, Pause, Engage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock crashes John’s day out with the lads, John objects strongly to his choice of clothing. And lets him know. (Yes, more vaguely clothing related smut.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even remember what I owed irisbleufic, but clearly there was something, because here is another installment of the porn I write when I lose bets to her. The opening paragraphs actually started out life as a series of text messages to stop her going spinny with boredom waiting for some test results, I think. There is _possibly_ one more installment which is nothing to do with her but with someone else who suggested another outfit I could put one or both of the boys in. If anyone’s got any other suggestions for ~~thinly veiled excuses to write smut~~ outfits/uniforms you’d like to see, stick ‘em in the comments.

“Say you’re sorry.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

“I’m not sorry. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

John traced a line with his fingertips around the edge of Sherlock’s brow, around the curve of his ear and down. Tightly controlled though he was, Sherlock could not suppress the shiver beneath his skin at the touch.

“You humiliated me.”

“I did nothing of the sort. I came to your interminable rugby match...”

“To which you were not invited.”

“I endured two hours watching men in shorts headbutting each other, and worse...”

“You enjoyed that, I could tell. Gave you ideas, did it?”

“And _worse_ , I engaged in bawdy conversations with some of your more uncouth friends over a pint afterwards, all for you. Pray tell me, my dear John, what did I do wrong?”

John glared at him. “What are you wearing?”

Sherlock glanced down at his chest, then back up to John who was standing over him where he sat sprawled on the sofa.

“It’s a rugby shirt. Like yours.”

“It is _not_ like mine,” snapped John heatedly, although the glint in his eye gave the game away. “What sort of rugby shirt is it?”

“A cotton blend...”

“What _colour_ is it?”

“Colours. Plural. It’s blue and white, is your vision failing in your old age?”

“And this?” John reached out and traced the embroidered logo on the breast of the shirt with his fingertips. He trailed his hand teasingly close to Sherlock’s left nipple but missed the mark deliberately, and was rewarded with a tiny flutter of frustration in Sherlock’s eyes. “What does this say?”

“HMS Chatham. You _are_ going blind, are you?”

“A _Navy_ shirt, Sherlock. You were supporting the _Navy_. At the _Army-Navy rugby_!”

“I still sat with you.”

“I wish you hadn’t, you determined idiot! You were supporting the wrong team, and you did it on purpose, to get at me in front of my friends, because you were bored. Right? And to top it off, for the first time in years, _your team won_!”

“It really isn’t my fault,” said Sherlock innocently and damn near batting his eyelashes. “I have very little that would have been appropriate to wear...”

“You always wear tailored shirts. _Always_.”

“You see, I knew this sailor once, Will, while I was at university. He was a sub-lieutenant then, on Chatham.”

“You what?”

“Now, John, if you’ll let me...”

“You dated a sailor, or at least screwed _Will_ enough to nick his shirt, and now you wear that same shirt and support _his_ team at _my_ rugby match, with _my_ friends, and you think you’re going to get away with that?” Suddenly John was in his face, pushing him back onto the sofa, kneeling astride him and gripping the offending shirt in his fists. He spoke carefully, and softly, but with intent. “You are going to regret this.”

He was close enough now that Sherlock could feel his breath, hot and harsh, on his own skin. His lips curved in a wicked smile.

“Make me.”

John's grip on the shirt front tightened and for a second Sherlock thought he was going to rip it clean from him, but he merely used the tight material to move Sherlock sideways and down. It should have been awkward but John seemed to know what he was doing and within moments Sherlock was on his back on the sofa, John straddling him wearing both an RAMC rugby shirt of his own, and a predatory look.

"Say you're sorry."

"No."

John swooped, pressing a kiss to his lips, almost hard enough to bruise but not quite. Sherlock responded eagerly and John added teeth to the mix, sharp but not painful. Sherlock smiled into the kiss, permission given, and then John was pushing up and pressing him down again by the shoulders, leaning his weight onto his arms.

"Jeans."

"I'm sorry?"

"Take off your jeans, now."

"I can't reach."

"You are the most flexible man I've ever shagged, you'll find a way. Or I could go find one of the lads and see if he could..."

Sherlock's eyes flared at the joking threat, and he wriggled out of his trousers and underwear, anticipating the next demand. John nodded, and before he could lie back down properly was tugging at the shirt. Sherlock went to remove it but found his hands being batted away, and then the shirt being tugged up over his chest, his head, his arms, down to his wrists... and then there was a tight pressure as John twisted the faded material into a knot, pinning Sherlock's hands together. Satisfied, he pushed Sherlock's arms up over his head and sat back. It would have been the work of seconds to get free, but Sherlock lay back and gave John his best vulnerable look, his chest heaving. John snorted as he shifted off the sofa.

"Don't give me that poor-little-me look. You've earned this, remember?"

Not waiting for an answer, John hurried to unfasten his own trousers and pushed them off with his boxers in one fluid motion, before tugging off his socks. Then he stretched to his full height, once again towering over Sherlock on the sofa. Except for this time there was a rather prominent and very interesting distraction that drew Sherlock's eyes away from his face and down. John laughed.

"You want this? Hm? You want me? Or your little sailor boy?"

"Well, he was..."

"He was what?" John straddled him again, a sudden weight at hips and shoulders, effectively pinning him down. He lowered his face until it was barely an inch from Sherlock's own and repeated "He was _what_?"

"Nothing compared to you," Sherlock managed to reply in the two seconds between John's question and the hard kiss that pressed against his lips before moving across his cheek, grazing over stubble, and down to his ear. John bit none too gently. Sherlock groaned and began to move his arms down, only to find John's hands moved to his biceps and pinned them back.

"John!"

"Sherlock?" John shifted again, hand dipping between his legs with a single purpose and lube that had come from goodness knows where, but John must have been thinking ahead, even as he pressed his teeth once more to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock struggled against the urge to rip his hands free, grab John and crush their lips together, own him completely, but he had just enough braincells still rubbing together to realise that he was the prize for the night. He let his head drop back, stretching his neck, and John made a pleased noise and bit down over a tendon as he slipped one finger gently inside him.

John was exquisitely talented, Sherlock had long ago established, at foreplay and preparation, making the mechanical necessities as gentle and distracting and non-clinical as possible. He had asked about it once, whether it was to keep John's professional and personal interactions with men separate, and John had glared at him and suggested he just give him a prostate exam and call it a day. Sherlock had not made that mistake again. Now he just lay back and enjoyed the flood of sensation, even though his fingers itched to reciprocate, to give as well as being taken. John kissed and nibbled across his neck and collarbone and his hips ground against Sherlock a slow rhythm that just ghosted warm skin and tense muscle near to his cock but still frustratingly far off. And every now and then, a hit of sensation flooded him from deep inside and rippled through him.

Sherlock had almost lost track of them both when John's hand slipped back up onto his thigh, pulling his legs further apart before he moved down between them to press slowly but surely into Sherlock. He shuddered with the sensation and as John pressed close to him, chest to heaving chest, and buried himself completely, a strange realisation hit him through the haze.

"John?" he managed, which was about as articulate as he was going to make the question. John grinned down at him as he began to rock his hips.

"Yes," he gasped between movements. "I'm still wearing my rugby shirt, and you're still tied up with yours. Next year you're going to wear this one. Do you understand?"

"I... yes, shirt..."

"This shirt. My shirt. The shirt I'm wearing, sweating in, fucking you in, because you're mine." He thrust fuller, harder. "Mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"What do you understand?"

"Yours. I'm yours."

"And?"

It was an odd moment, through the fog of movement and sweat and steadily dampening cotton, when Sherlock realised that John was asking permission. For all his dominance and determination, underneath the mask he was presenting, there was a flicker of vulnerability, wanting to be wanted. Wanting to be needed. Wanting Sherlock to want to be claimed, to be his completely. He twisted his hands free of their restraints.

"Yes," he whispered, reaching up and stroking his hands across John's head, neck, shoulders, back. "God, yes. Yours, always yours. John." Then he gripped, fisting his hands in the red material and pulling John as close as he could get him.

They lost all semblance of control then, moving as one, needy, fast and frantic, almost desperate. Sherlock clung tightly and John dropped his head, his mouth half open, all his effort going into burying himself inside his lover, his claim, over and over. He came first and suddenly, pressing hard into Sherlock with a keening sound and moving one shaking hand between them to finish him quickly, a few hard and fluid pulls that brought him to the precipice and showed him the stars, while John was still buried deep inside him, stomach muscles still trembling with fine aftershocks. They stayed frozen still for a long moment, sweat beading both their brows, gasping air into one another's mouths.

Sherlock reached up to his arms around him and John shifted his weight away. He went to get a towel, or possibly Sherlock's former boyfriend's rugby shirt, to clean them up. But Sherlock slipped his hands inside his top and up John's smooth and taut back, tugging him back down into an embrace. John resisted, and Sherlock felt the ripple of embarrassment under his skin, that he had been jealous and proprietary, even in jest, even knowing Sherlock wanted him to be just that. How unnecessary, and overly proper, and ever so very John. Sherlock was determined to hold onto him until that ripple was over and done, dispersed, forgotten, and then hold onto him some more just because he could, because this was John and _he_ was John's.

"Sherlock..."

"Stay,"

"We're kind of a mess, both of us..."

"Stay."

"My shirt..."

"Stay."

"But..."

" _Stay_."

The weight in Sherlock's arms shifted again as John settled into a more comfortable position. Sherlock tugged the blanket from the back of the sofa over both of them as best he could.

"Okay," John murmured from somewhere near his ear. "I'll stay. I'll always stay." He gave a sigh of deep content, and the ripple of tension vanished from his muscles as though it had never been.

Sherlock smiled, and held him a little tighter.


End file.
